


A Voice of Naught and Night

by dontyoudarestiles



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, But Credence Is Ancient So..., Credence Cannot Speak, Fairy Tale Elements, Irish Folklore, Johnny Depp Is Not Gellert Grindelwald, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mads Mikkelsen as Gellert Grindelwald, Potential Underage, Protective Original Percival Graves, Selkie Credence Barebone, Temporarily Mute Character, fluff and plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2018-09-17 14:33:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9329207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontyoudarestiles/pseuds/dontyoudarestiles
Summary: Percival Graves is a detective in the small Irish village of Perth, living in the shack along the sea his father had lived in and his father before him. Raised on myths of merrowmaids and selkies, when he finds a mute, beautiful boy washed up on the shoreline, he can't help but provide shelter.And eventually, love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> seal-girl by Peter Davies
> 
> The selkie sits on solemn sands,  
> Her hair a curtain wet.  
> She sings her songs of splendid seas -  
> A shining silhouette. 
> 
> Her lily coat lies loosely strung,  
> Her shoulders slim and white,  
> She sighs with sounds of salty spray;  
> A voice of naught and night.
> 
>  
> 
> Inspired by the artwork of this lovely person: http://istanbul-let.tumblr.com

 

_Graves_

The boy who washes up on the seashore is mute.  
  
Pale and salt-soaked, he’s curled up in a ball near shallows, protecting the naked slip of his belly and the curve of his genitals from the knife-laced wind. When Graves first sees him, he thinks he’s a faerie from one of the silly legends his da liked to tell back in the day—skin as soft as powdered snow, hair as black as pitch and drenched from the sea, cheeks ruddy and pretty as the sunset. But Da’s faeries never had lips that went bluey or nail-beds that flushed purple from the chill or flesh that froze in the cold Irish December.  
  
“Are you alright?” Graves shouts over the whistling wind.  
  
The boy says nothing.  
  
For a short second, Graves thinks about just walking away. Because he can see Trouble lurking over the boy’s shoulders, hiding in the shadows of a clenched jaw, stalking the boy’s feet. But then he sees the eyes. Dark and liquid and wild, they flutter and thick lashes beat against the boy’s high, cold-flushed cheek, and Graves reaches out.  
  
It is nothing to shrug off his coat and place it about the boy’s delicate, frozen shoulders. The boy shudders into it, clutching at the fabric jealously with blue fingers, and that makes up Graves' mind.  
  
He carries the boy home in his arms, a slight, kitten-weak thing that clings to Graves' shoulders tremblingly. Graves can’t remember the last time someone touched him in this way, if anyone had ever touched him in this way, desperate and trembling. And although he knows the boy is snuggling down into his shoulder in search of his body heat, and not out of affection, Graves can’t help the flush of pleasure from the sweet touch, can’t help but close his eyes as he feels strands of wet hair brush against his cheek and settle icily against his neck.

“Don’t worry, you’re safe now,” he whispers and feels the boy shake.  
  
His home isn’t much, a tiny cabin sat on a high sand bank that overlooks the craggy shore, but the boy only looks about wonderingly and closes his eyes greedily as they step into the living room, the warmth sweet and loving on his chilled body.  
  
Graves runs the boy a steaming bath, worried for the state of the little fingers and toes. They are more a pale blue than a dark, evil purple though, so he thinks the digits are safe from frostbite, but still. He blows on them with his hot breath, instructs the boy to do the same while he gathers towels and lays them on the radiators to heat up.  
  
The boy makes a little noise of pleasure once Graves settles him into the bath, a soft “oh,” that sends shivers down Graves spin as the hot water splashes and smacks against numbed, slicked skin. He’s a pretty little thing in the water, long hair swirling about him like a cloud of ink in the water, white skin flushing peach and apple from the heat, eyes gone dewy with pleasure. But he’s too weak to wash himself, fumbling fingers nearly dropping the soap and he can barely raise his arms to splash his face with warm water.  
  
He makes a wretched sound, frustrated and sniffling, and Graves' heart breaks.  
  
“Here, love, let me, c’mon.”  
  
The boy watches quietly as Graves kneels next to the tub, ignoring his aching knees _(he’s just turned forty last month, his bones aren’t as young as they used to be)_ to help this soft-eyed boy who needs him. And it’s a strange feeling to be needed for something as mundane and as simple as taking a bath. A strange, but heady feeling, being needed, a surge of power that makes Graves shudder from it.  
  
But power or not, Graves takes the soap and a soft washcloth gladly and runs it down the sweet dip of the boy’s spine, so thin and delicate that he can count the gentle bones. The boy hums happily, lids half-open, and it fills Graves up with a well of warmth, not unlike drinking a hot drink on a dreary day. It’s only when Graves starts washing the thin little chest and smooth belly that he sees the bruises.  
  
They’re mottled all over the boy’s soft hips and thighs, patterning the boy from dark blues and purples to shades of rotted green and yellow. Graves is frozen at the sight of them, cupping one slim thigh as he stares at the ugly print of a man’s hand on this boy. A red film descends over his eyes, tinting everything in shades of blood, and he can feel his heartbeat throbbing with anger.

_(The very thought of the boy, sobbing and in pain under the heavy weight of a faceless, cruel-fingered man makes Graves' stomach roil, a beast roaring in his chest, fingers clenching around an invisible throat)._

He only jerks out of his trance when he feels the boy quivering. At first, he thinks the poor thing is cold and reaches out to start the hot water tap, but then he glances at the boy’s face.  
  
The tears slide like rain droplets down the boy’s cheeks, some of them slipping over the plump of his bottom lip, and his nose goes bright from sniffling.  
  
“Oh, love,” says Graves softly, sleeves heavy with water, knee caps aching from kneeling too long, and he draws the boy close, lets the sweetling dampen his shirt as he cries. He feels the soft, smooth skin under his arms, hears the boy stuttered, hitching breaths. “It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.”  
  
Inside, he thinks _what happened to you? What are you running from?_

  
…

  
Graves dries the boy with heated towels, and it’s a challenge—the boy cannot stand, eyes glazed and not all there, unable to help. His skin now burns with sweet fever, delirious, and so he lies listless in the tub as Graves pats him dry. It’s easy to carry him from the bathroom, a white towel dangling from boyish hips. Graves places the boy onto the cover of his bed, and it’s startling, the moon skin bright against the dark sheets. The boy swallows a few Tylenol with a little coaxing and draws long pulls of water from a tall glass Graves keeps by the bedside. It’s only once the boy settles against the comforter that Graves kneels in front of the boy, sliding reassuring hands over the little one’s wrists when he whimpers in confusion, skin hot to the touch.

_(Graves refuses to think about how easy it is, to get on his knees for the soft-eyed creature, a priest supplicating himself before God and his angels.)_

“I don’t want to, darling, but I have to check,” he whispers into the night.

The boy trembles, but nods as Graves gently, so gently, unwraps the towel from around the boy’s waist, revealing the plush, bruised thighs and the plump, soft cock. Graves sucks in a breath—the boy is so white, the few points of color the beautifully pink nipples, flushed cheeks, the berry mouth, and peach-headed cock.

_(And the ugly, spattered bruises, but thinking of it gives Graves heartburn)._

But Graves is not here to gawk without reason, and so he gently spreads the boy’s legs. The sweetling lets out a little cry, but there is no shame, only gentle confusion, and the boy only sighs as little as Graves trails a finger down his little ass to press at the smooth, silky skin of his rose.

Graves does not linger, simply feels the untouched flesh, not allowing himself to look, and retreats, blushing like a milkmaid felt up the first time, but unbearably relieved. The boy is furled tightly and dry, no blood or wounds or abnormal ridges that Graves can feel.

If the boy had shown signs of sexual assault, Graves doesn’t know _what_ he would have done. He doesn’t.

But the boy was not harmed in that horrific manner, and Graves breaths a prayer of thanks to God for the first time in years.

He tears his eyes away from the sweet swell of hips and avoids looking at the pretty pink bundle between the boy’s white legs. He’s trying to be good, trying to be kind, so he wraps the boy up in soft fleece blankets and herds him out of the bedroom and in front of the warm, fire-flaring hearth of the den. The boy shivers, still nude, as Graves scrambles around looking for clothes.

But still, the boy doesn’t speak. He responds a little as Graves gently clothes him in his softest longsleeve and sweatpants.  
  
“C’mon, love, head up,” Graves murmurs, helping the boy pop his head of curls through the hole. “Good job, good job. Give me your feet now.” The boy’s lithe, pale legs slip into the pants easily, and Graves is very careful not to let his fingers linger anywhere inappropriate. It’s rather funny, at first, to see how very ill Graves’ fit the boy, sleeves hanging loose over thin fingers, the sweatpants dragging across the floor, but then Graves looks too long and it becomes arousing—the silkiness of a bared shoulder, the lovely hollow of the throat, the sharp jut of his pelvis poking up over the waistband.

Graves feels hot, dazed, meets those depthless, fever-bright eyes, and jerks out of it. He mumbles an excuse and busies himself by moving his little lumpy sofa as close as he can to the fire, so the boy can settle and thaw more easily. He’s in a bad way, breath thick and rattly in his chest, and Graves can picture him slipping, growing cold and blank, and a sudden terror fills his lungs like ice-water.

“Please don’t take him,” Graves finds himself praying. “Please, Lord, don’t do that to me, please.”

 

...

 

Graves stays awake half the night watching over the little one. He dozes in his favorite armchair, ten minute stretches at a time, slams open his eyes awake to smooth the thick, damp hair away from the boy’s heat-slick forehead and tend to the low-lying fire. He coaxes cool water down the boy’s throat, rearranges the blankets, is even able to get the boy to swallow a few mouthfuls of sweet porridge in a slight moment of clarity. The boy himself wakes Graves up a few times during the night, shrill little whines from nightmares pulling Graves out of his sleep and drawing him to the boy’s bedside.

“Go to sleep, sweet, shh,” he murmurs, and the boy settles, tossing and turning receding under Graves' gentling.

God against all odds is kind for once, and the fever breaks a few hours after midnight after raging like a forest fire for most of the night. But still, Graves doesn’t retreat to his room, but curls up more properly in his chair and grants himself sleep.

It’s only when the sun stretches grey-lavender fingers across the clouded sky that he gets up, puttering around to make breakfast and brush his teeth, letting the boy rest for a mite longer.  
  
“What happened to you?” Graves murmurs aloud, and is almost startled when the boy shifts and sits up, awake. “ _Jesus_ , Mary, and Joseph, lad.”

The boy trembles for a moment, eyes wild and blown wide for a moment before recognition sets in, and the shoulders untense. Thankfully, the boy seems incredibly alert compared to only a few hours before.

“It’s alright, lovely, you’re safe here.” Graves keeps his voice low and smooth. The boy’s hair has dried into long, glossy ringlets, and Graves can’t help but brush his fingers through them gently, feeling the silk curl against Graves' rough, wind-chafed skin.“There’s a lad. Could you tell me your name?”

The boy blushes at the gentle touch, but shakes his head, taps his throat. _Can’t speak._ But then a light blooms in the dark eyes. He mimes writing in the air, hands and arms trembling with the effort. Luckily it only takes a few moments for Graves to track down a pen and paper.  
  
_Credence_ , scrawled in a swirly, girlish cursive, stands black and striking against the white of the paper.  
  
“Credence,” Graves reads aloud, a heavy name. “You’re safe now. I swear it.”  
  
Credence smiles, and, with his lips pink and soft instead of paling, chapped blue, he looks like the most beautiful thing Graves has ever seen.

The boy writes quickly, but his hands tremble clumsily with exhaustion, and the long sharp strokes nearly rip the page in two carelessly.

_What’s your name?_

Graves is faintly ashamed at not having introduced himself from the very beginning—his Mam would’ve surely killed him for not minding his manners.

“Ah, I’m Graves. Or Percival, but hardly anyone calls me that anymore, not since Uni.” He huffs a laugh, deliberately soft so as not to startle the lad. “What _are_ we goin’ to do with you, then, eh?”  
  
Credence blinks up at him, butterfly-shy and nervous, and he goes for the pen again, but the boy fumbles and there’s the clatter of metal falling to the ground, and the boy is going pink and wet-eyed with frustration.

“I’m so sorry, lovely,” Graves murmurs, reaches out to the pat the little weak hands and put them into the boy’s lap to rest. “But you’ve got to be patient. You nearly died out there.”

Credence bows his head, staring out at the flames in the hearth. The flicker of light across the high cheekbones and the deep lips and dark eyes make Graves blink and wonder if the boy really is a faerie come to life.

 

…

 

Sergeant Tina Goldstein doesn’t know when to mind her own damned business.

“I’m sure we can manage just fine, Graves. It’s only a week off. I’m just worried—you haven’t taken a vacation day since last Christmas,” and her voice dips with suspicion. “Is everything alright?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” Graves mutters into the phone-mouth, casting long, distracted glances at the pretty boy asleep on his couch. “It’s—erm, it’s family business, you understand. An old aunt called up.”

“Oh.” He can hear the confused frown through the phone. “Well, let me know when you’re ready to come in.”

“Of course, yes.” Graves half-heartedly makes vapid small talk for a few more minutes before they say their goodbyes and what not, and the phone clicks into its holder when he puts it down. He tiptoes carefully into the sitting room, knowing Credence is dozing gently, unwilling to wake him.  
  
The boy sleeps deeply, lashes casting long, deep shadows on his cheeks in the firelight. He’s sprawled on the couch, half covered by the mountain of blankets and pillows Graves had collected for him, and even though Credence looks incredibly comfortable and warm and safe, Graves has such an intense urge to carry him to Graves' bedroom and tuck him gently in bed that he wonders if he’s losing it.  
  
He clenches his fists and tries to distract himself by turning to the book he’d abandoned before finding Credence on the seashore. But his heart’s racing and his thoughts are full of Credence, the faerie he fished out of the sea, not the droll protagonist or her lackluster love interest, and five minutes passes before Graves realizes he’s been staring at Credence in repose instead of turning the page.  
  
He slaps the book shut with a sigh, and gives in. He sits next to the boy napping on the couch, carefully touches the smooth brow to check for fever. Credence is warm, but not sickly, and instead looks remarkably healthy for someone literally spat out of the sea only a day ago. Cheeks flushed prettily, breaths deep and even, he could’ve been anyone’s son, sleeping through a perfectly good Saturday, avoiding schoolwork and responsibilities. Or perhaps someone’s lover, drowsy from post-coitus and happy and spoiled.  
  
Graves hates to wake him, but it’s been a good five hours and the boy hasn’t had anything to eat since the fever broke. So he touches the warm shoulder and murmurs, “Wake up, lovely, wake up. Time for a quick bite.”  
  
Credence wakes like he’s swimming up from a deep pool, slow and elegant, lashes lifting gently, legs and arms shifting under the blankets, the smooth arch and stretch of a neck and the waggle of fingers.  
  
“Hullo there,” Graves whispers, unbearably charmed.  
  
Credence smiles brightly, eyes muddled for a moment before clearing. The boy sits up, rubs a fist in his eye too roughly for Graves' tastes, and yawns, little pink tongue curling like a kitten’s.  
  
“Had a good nap there, did you?” Graves says. “Hungry?”  
  
Credence merely blinks at him, and there is a low grumble of hunger from the boy’s stomach. Credence blushes and Graves laughs.  
  
“That answers that, I think.” Graves stands. “Do you—what would you like? Do you eat meat?”  
  
Credence nods, looking around for his little pen and pad of paper, and Graves retrieves the items from his writing desk, knowing the boy is still too weak to stand by himself.

“You think you’re strong enough to write some today?” he asks. The boy nods eagerly. He proves himself by scribbling a little note and pushing the crumpled paper into Graves' palm, fingers soft and cool and only trembling the slightest bit.  
  
_Thank you._  
  
The words follow Graves to the kitchen, where he fixes sandwiches for them both and brews a hot pot of tea.  
  
“Time for a change of scenery,” Graves says, coming back into the living room, only to find Credence trying to stand on his own—unsuccessfully. The boy is clinging to the back of the couch, trying to rest his weight on legs too weak to cooperate, and Graves scoops the boy up quickly, just in time to see the boy’s knees buckle.  
  
“ _Jay_ sus Christ, are you insane?” Graves yelps. Credence is a trembling, warm, terrified weight in his arms, and the boy hides his face in Graves' neck. “Oh, love, you’re not well yet. Yeh have to have patience.”  
  
Credence makes a little, dissatisfied noise, and Graves huffs a soft laugh, ruffling the long curls at Credence’s nape. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Just a small bump, don’t worry.”  
  
He carries the boy into the kitchen, sits Credence down at the table, making sure he’s comfortable. “Good?”  
  
Credence nods shyly, staring at the little cup of tea sat next to his hand.  
  
Graves scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “Wasn’t sure what’cha liked, exactly. Didn’t know if you preferred sugar or not.” He quickly pours two spoonfuls of sugar into the tea, watches the powder melt down and tries not to think of what Credence would taste like after drinking it, warm and sweet and earthy.  
  
The boy smiles up at him gratefully, and Graves feels the tops of his cheeks warm before he clears his throat loudly and focuses on his own food. But even that distraction is short-lived, because although Credence can’t speak, he can hum and make little, satisfied noises that disarm Graves terribly.  
  
He glances up and he doesn’t know why it’s so satisfying, seeing Credence devour the food with the reverence of a priest receiving communion, but Graves feels a flood of warmth in his ribcage, a sort of self-satisfaction humming in his blood, and he thinks _I did that_ as the boy makes his little happy noises, soft hums, eyelids falling to half-mast with pleasure.  
  
…  


_Credence_

  
Graves, the man who’s rescued him, is kind. His voice is a low, gentle burr, his hands are large but soft on Credence’s paper-frail skin, and he has a light in his eyes that the Other Man didn’t.  
  
His home is warm and his hearth is lively, and Credence could stay and stare at the flicker of the flames forever and never be restless.

The food Graves makes him is strange, but good. There is no tang of salt or bitter aftertaste of fish, but instead tender, savory meat placed between sweetbread, the crunch of lettuce, the soft give of cheese. He eats greedily, never having tasted anything so good before.

Warm and full and good, he thinks to himself that he wouldn’t really mind being caught by this man. Not really.

  
…  


_Graves_

  
He wakes up two mornings after the boy appears to an empty house, and he panics.  
  
The couch is neatly made, the blankets folded and pressed, the pillows rearranged prettily, and Graves is terrified. He becomes an idiot for a good few minutes before he finds his mind enough to glance outside and—oh.  
  
A pale figure, down by the shoreline. Credence is bent down, ankle-deep in the very water that had tried to kill him only a day ago, water lapping at his hands playfully, and he looks up guilelessly when Graves calls his name. There’s a quick smile, visible from even this distance, and Graves _breathes_.  
  
“Credence!” he calls, and there’s an overwhelming sense of relief, yes, but also fury. The boy was so weak the past day he could barely walk, and he wakes up this morning and has the gall to dare the universe to try and drown him again? He’s not dressed for the weather, either, only an overly large sweater and soft, damp-hemmed sweatpants barely protecting him from the chilled wind.  
  
The boy straightens with obvious effort as Graves reaches him, but he’s still smiling, the fool, and Graves is about to yell at him for risking his life and thinking himself invincible when the boy reaches out and the wrath dies in Graves' throat. Credence’s hands are freezing and wet, and so are the smooth, glossy pearls that are dropped into Graves' palm.  
  
Graves freezes. “What’re these?”  
  
Credence just smiles and blinks up at him, closes his lax fingers around the little treasures. A gesture: _for you._  
  
Graves stares at him, down to the pearls, and back again. They really are quite gorgeous, smooth and hard and cold, like perfectly rounded ice that won’t melt, and they’re worth more than what Graves could make in a lifetime. An almost overflowing handful, and the boy just _gives them_ to Graves.  
  
“Where in the seven hells did you find these?” Graves finally forces out.  
  
But Credence shakes his head and steps back when Graves holds them out again.  
  
“Credence, I can’t take these,” Graves insists, thrusting the little pearls into the boy’s chest. “I can’t, I won’t. Do you know how much these are worth? What you could do with this type of money?”  
  
But Credence looks at him, pleading with his eyes, plum mouth trembling, and if the boy starts crying because Graves won’t take money that’s rightfully Credence’s, Graves' going to have a stroke.  
  
“We—we should talk about this inside,” Graves stammers, shoving the goddamn _pearls_ into his pocket.

It becomes very evident that Credence only made it this far out from sheer effort, because he walks very slowly and very carefully. The second time Credence nearly lands on his face, slim feet stumbling in the damp sand, Graves scoops the boy into his arms and carries him the rest of the way and feels a sense of déjà vu that he never wants repeated. Even the memory of Credence naked and cold and near death makes something freeze deep in Graves' gullet, and a reddish cloud of anger gathers in his chest as he thinks about what he would do to anyone who tried to hurt the poor lad.  
  
“Cocoa first, and then we’re going to have a chat,” he says forbiddingly, but the boy only ducks his head down into Graves' neck, breath sweet and warm against Graves' throat, and tightens his grip on Graves' shoulders. Graves feels his anger fade in favor of exasperated fondness. He presses his lips to the wild curls, and thinks _I’m in trouble._

Credence likes the hot cocoa quite a bit despite it being made from store bought powder and not from Kowalski Quality Baked Goods, Graves' favorite. The boy sips carefully, but reverently, and Graves has to audibly tell the boy to slow down.

“It’s a bit rich, innit?” he says with a wink. “We don’t want you getting any tummy aches, now.”

Credence blushes delightfully, and Graves only lasts a few minutes of watching the boy drink slowly before pushing a little platter of butter biscuits towards the boy. He’s seen the Credence’s ribs in the bath, stark and terrifyingly vivid against the skin. He never wants to see his boy so thin again, could never deny him hot food or drink because of it. When Credence became _his_ boy, he’s not quite sure. But so it is.

Credence smiles, but then frowns as Graves places the not insignificant pile of pearls on the middle of the coffee table, the clink and clatter of them ringing out in the kitchen. The boy produces his pen and pad from nowhere, scribbles something quickly, insistently.

_For you, Mr Graves. A thank you._

“Credence,” Graves says lowly, seriously, and catches Credence’s eyes so intensely the boy stares with alarm. “I swear on me life, on me Mam in heaven, that no matter what happens, no matter how well or how ill you get, you will always be welcome here, free of charge. This?” He picks up one of the pearls, rolls it between his thumb and forefinger, puts it down again firmly. “This isn’t necessary, my boy.”

The boy looks faintly embarrassed at the display of kindness, head dipped down and cheeks red, and Graves captures one of the little pretty hands in his bearish palms before the boy can retreat.

“Oh, you’re such a good, kind boy,” Graves says fondly. “So considerate."

Credence looks stunned, and then hides his pleased smile and kittenish eyes in his shoulder, squirming with delight, and it takes everything in Graves not to lean over and ravish the boy where he sits.

“Good boy,” he whispers instead. “My good, lovely little boy.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lowlands Away 
> 
> I Dream'd a dream the other night.  
> Lowlands, lowlands away, me John.  
> My love she came, dressed all in white.  
> Lowlands away.
> 
> I Dream'd my love came in my sleep.  
> Lowlands, lowlands away, me John.  
> Her cheeks were wet, her eyes did weep.  
> Lowlands away.
> 
> And bravely in her bossom fair.  
> Lowlands, lowlands away me John.  
> Her red, red rose, my love did wear.  
> Lowlands away.

_Graves_

 

If Graves were a kinder man, he would’ve taken the boy to hospital that day he found him adrift on the seashore. He would’ve gotten Credence a proper doctor, found him a linen-pressed bed, and been done with the whole thing.

If Graves were a less selfish man, he would’ve driven the boy down to his own office himself to fill out a missing person’s form and inquiry papers. Would’ve asked his lieutenants and old colleagues from his Dublin days about missing white boys with dark eyes, darker hair, and skin like the moon.

If Graves were a better man, he would’ve gotten on the phone with Social Protection, would’ve reported a missing, potentially underage boy found nude and trembling on the beach, would’ve reported signs of abuse.

But instead, he swoops in himself and carries the boy into his home, into his life, like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Like he’s not purposefully making the lad dependent on him. And no, Credence has never complained, never once expressed a desire to leave, but that doesn’t mean the situation is in any shape or form _okay_. With a growing sense of guilt, Graves realizes more and more the many ways he’s been taking advantage. He’s imposing himself on this lovely young thing, making himself an indispensable source of comfort and shelter and love. Every kind word, every gentle caress and loving glance, is a lock clicked on the boy’s door. And Graves doesn’t even hold the keys anymore.

And even if he did, he’s come to realise that he doesn’t want the boy to leave, impossibly, _selfishly_. And the boy never asks, only smiles and claws out a place for himself in the vast emptiness of Graves’ life, fills up the room with brightness and silent laughter.

 

...

 

Graves goes back to work after four days. Four days of holding the sweet, lithe body close and safe, four days of chasing the boy’s lurid nightmares away, of feeling the gentle trembles calm under his patient touch, of letting the boy tuck his pale face against Percival’s throat, of spooning sweet porridge and soup into the little plush mouth.

To have to go and sit in the grey-lit station, a fat pile of paperwork lumped on his desk, and hear the grappling of petty thieves and vandals being wrestled into the holding cells is a horrid, cruel torture that sets his teeth on edge and makes him pace and snarl like a tiger in a cage.

He wants to be at home with his boy, his sweet lovely boy, tucked up nice and warm and safe within Graves’ arms. Because four days is too short a time to know someone so completely and even now Graves knows the boy was kind and gentle and sharp of mind.

He found him hiding in the bedroom once, he remembers.

Graves loves his bedroom, and so does Credence apparently. Graves can’t blame him. It’s warm and dark and just this side of small to be recognized as more cozy than cramped. There’s a large window with a soft, cushioned alcove across the room facing the bed, a little bench piled high with pillows and blankets.

Graves found Credence sat in front of the wide, bay window the third day, when he was supposed to be eating lunch. There was a frantic chirping, the loud flap of wings, and it only took Graves a few moments to realize that a little bird’s frail feet had frozen to the wrought iron frame of the window.

Graves was about to make his way forward, to do what, he doesn’t know even now, but then Credence leant in, wrapped a slim, gentle hand around the bird’s plump body, and breathed low and warm. It was such an ingenious little move that Graves stopped and stared for a moment. He watched the boy melt the ice with his hot, sweet breath, and eventually Credence pried the little feet from the metal and turned to Graves with bright, happy eyes.

_Look what I did!_

The bird meeped in the boy’s careful grip, and Credence turned to the window and carefully let go. There was a sharp flutter of wings, a goodbye chirrup, and the fat little body disappeared into the distance, leaving behind a fluff of feather on the windowsill and a soft smile on Credence’s lips.

Graves finds himself smiling at the memory, but blinks and Abernathy, one of his subordinates, is gaping at him like he’s seen the good lord’s face in a potato crisp.

“What exactly are you looking at, Abernathy?” Graves snaps, sharper than he’d intended, and the shrimpish man stutters out something and scampers away like a spooked mouse.

“You’re in a good mood,” Tina says over lunch a bit later. She’s skeptical, and Graves thinks irritably that she’s a better detective than Chief Inspector Picquery gives her credit for.

“What about it?” Graves mutters, the smile that had been hovering at the corners of his mouth vanishing. He’d been imagining Credence this morning, sat up on the bathroom sink, chin and jaw smeared with foaming shaving cream and giggling at the rasp of the straight-edge shaver which Graves drew ever so cautiously across his jawline. Tina’s voice was a cruel break to the memory.

“You’re never in a good mood.” Tina picks at her salad, tone factual.

“I beg your pardon,” but Graves isn’t as offended as he’d like to pretend to be. He is in a good mood. Imagining his boy waiting at home for him, fiddling around with Graves’ da’s old radio, bouncing around in his longish sleep-shirt. It makes Graves’ ribcage swell, but not painfully—warm and brimming, _happy_.

“Well, I’m not complaining.” Tina smirks now. “You’re less likely to go off on the secretaries when you’re getting laid.”

Graves sputters—”Is that anyway to talk to your _superior_ , Goldstein?”—but inside he’s grinning. It’s a good day.

He’s productive despite all of the distractions, and queerly it is the thought of Credence waiting, swinging his socked feet from the kitchen bar that has Graves finishing up much more paperwork than he’d thought he’d accomplish in a day. He’s able to leave early because of it, and decides for a quick stop at one of the grocery stores, thinking about picking up more milk and eggs. But instead, he finds himself perusing a techie shop front, full to bursting of sleek television screens.

Graves has never worried much about his lack of a television. He has never put much stock in that form of entertainment, though he knows his officers adore popular dramatic programs on Friday nights and Sunday mornings, coming in on Monday chattering about who cheated on who and who was brutally murdered and such and such. But now he finds himself fretting in front of an entertainment shop when he should be grocery shopping, because Credence gets bored quite easily, bright, feline eyes going blank and dazed on some middle distance Graves can’t see.

He eventually pulls himself, and finds his way to the market. He gets what he needs and heads home, the newest TV model still sat in the shop, and he’s glad of it because when he opens the door of the house, Credence comes bounding up to him, grinning, Shakespeare’s _Hamlet_ clutched between his fists.

The boy gestures wildly at the cover, panting, but then stops and just beams and there’s a hard, sticky lump in Graves’ throat, looking down at this sweet-eyed boy. The version he’s holding was Graves’ father’s copy, the only book the old man had ever read that was written by an Englishman.

“That was my Da’s,” he says, clearing his throat roughly, and he sees a worried expression forming on Credence’s face, darkening the smooth brow and thinning the soft lips. “Don’t worry. He would’ve liked you having it.” He would’ve liked Credence period, Graves finds himself thinking, would've liked the mystery and strange kindness of him. “I could read it aloud, if yeh’d like,” he finds himself offering for some unknown reason. He knows the boy can read and write, seen it with his own eyes, but finds he wants to do everything he can for Credence.

And it’s worth it to see the pretty, plainly joyful smile twisting those pink lips, making those dark eyes shine.

“C’mon, love. Let me put the milk away and I’ll tell you all about the Dane.”

  
...  
  
Queenie’s the one who tells him about the man in the bakery.  
  
Queenie’s a sweet girl, chicly curled hair and bright eyes, and she’s sharp as a knife too—one of the many reasons Jacob’s lucky to have her. So when she sees a tall, strange Nordic man showing her patrons photos of a pale-faced boy and asking after his runaway “son”, she feels a creeping suspicion curling in her gut.  
  
When Graves comes into the shop Saturday morning, searching the shelves for the lemon tarts he knows Credence likes the best, Queenie tells him all about it.  
  
“It was strange, you know,” she mutters lowly to him. “I hope it’s not true, the poor lad.”  
  
Graves' skin crawls with nerves. “What made you nervous?” he asked, tone suddenly serious and businesslike.

Queenie’s got good instincts. He remembers vividly when Siobhan O’Hare got engaged to some Dublin slicker last July. Queenie had called him a cheat, and two weeks later Siobhan’s mother had found the scrub in bed with one of the Langer girls. If Queenie thought this man was bad news, Graves was inclined to believe her.  
  
Queenie hesitates for a second. She’s the lovely type of person who doesn’t like to speak badly of people she doesn’t know, but she eventually talks, instincts winning out over courtesy. “I don’t mean to be rude or anythin’, but he was a bit weird, the man. Some sort of thick accent, tall. Well-dressed. And there was something wrong with his eyes, you know?”

“His eyes?” Graves prompted, more and more ill at ease.

“Something missing. Something—wrong. I dunno how to explain it.” Queenie fiddles with her apron, frowning at a muffin whose top is the slightest bit lopsided. “Wonder why he thinks his son would run all the way up here, middle of nowhere.”  
  
“What did the boy in the photo look like?”  
  
She shrugs. “Waifish, dark hair, pale skin.” She blinks gold-spun lashes. “He looked sad.”  
  
Spine icing up, Graves manages to calm himself enough to buy the pastries and walk home at a normal rate. He doesn’t burst out into a sprint the moment he sees the swell of his hill, but it’s a near thing. He nearly wrenches the door off its hinges, though, and Credence is startled enough to nearly fall off the living room couch.  
  
He can see the question in Credence’s face— _“What’s wrong, what happened?”_ —but he can’t physically do anything other than crowd Credence up against the couch and just press their foreheads together. He twitches, then gives in, grabs the boy by the waist, slides his nose down Credence’s cheek to his neck, and just breathes.  
  
Graves remembers when he first found the boy washed up on the shore, cold and pale and faded. He thought the boy was a ghost, a faerie from one of the old legends, flickering on the twilight. He thought if he dared to touch him, his hand would find mist and magic. Now, he can’t think that anymore, because Credence is warm and soft and solid underneath Graves' hands and arms. The boy doesn’t tremble or whimper, only makes a soft, confused noise, a little hum in his throat that Graves can feel under his lips. He presses three quick kisses, gentle and fond, up the boy’s neck and jaw, before pulling back, cupping the boy’s cheek with a large, warm palm, can’t help himself because the boy is _safe and here_.  
  
Credence is flushed and confused, but pleased, smiling brightly, and Graves can’t help himself.  
  
“Sorry,” Graves whispers, and then dips in for another kiss. This time his mouth touches smooth, soft lips instead of the silk of Credence’s neck, and the boy shudders, clutching at Graves' shoulders as they trade heat and warmth, and a weight loosens in Graves' chest, unfurling into something hot and sweet and beautiful. The boy’s new at this, lips clumsy and unsure and his hands flutter in the air, hesitant to touch, but his inexperience only makes Graves growl, low and pleased in his throat. He cups the boy’s crystal-line jaw, feels the impossibly smooth skin, trails his thumbs over the arch of the jugular. There’s a quick, thrilling slide of tongue, the catch of teeth, and Graves has to pull away, panting like he's just run twelve kilometers, because if he doesn’t stop, he’ll _consume_. And he just wanted to hold the boy, wanted to gather the boy lovingly in his arms so the world wouldn’t be able to rip him away, and now, without planning it, he can taste the sweet on his lips, the ghost of the boy hot against his side.

“Credence,” he murmurs, and the boy looks up with limpid eyes, shy and delighted. He gives a little huff and nuzzles into Graves’ chest, arms trapped between them. He fingers Graves’ tie, pressing his swollen lips to the fabric, and Graves’ heart plays a tap dance on his third rib.

“Oh lord,” Graves murmurs, stunned. “Oh—I didn’t plan that.” He pulls away, bereft at the lack of Credence’s warmth, and his heart hurts at Credence’s soft noise of protest. “No—I—it was my fault, something happened today at the bakery.”

Credence stands there, stunned. Graves draws back, paces, rakes his hands through his hair. Credence blinks, makes a little questioning sound. _What happened?_

“Queenie—the baker I go to—she said a strange man had come round, asking after his son. He had a picture.” Graves can’t look at Credence, doesn’t want to see the happy light in his eyes at the news that his father’s come for him. Doesn’t want him to _leave._ “Is—did you run away from home, Credence?”

The boy doesn’t answer, and Graves looks up, and—

The boy’s stricken, healthy color leaching from his skin as he pales. Graves sees the tears well up silently, watches as they roll down trembling cheeks and drip off the sharp jaw and dampen the boy’s jumper, and automatically he reaches out, but the boy flinches back.

“ _Credence_ ,” Graves fumbles.

Credence gets small, his shoulders hunch, and Graves wonders frantically whether the boy is going to shatter.

“Credence, please, what is it?” Graves had never wished so much that Credence could speak as he does now. He glances around frantically, finds the pad of paper and pen on the writing desk. “ _Please_.”

The boy swallows, sniffles, but takes the paper.

_Are you going to give me back?_

“Back?” Graves’ mind whirls. “To—to the man?”

Credence nods, doesn’t look up.

“Remember what I said. No matter what, you’re welcome here.” Graves takes two steps forward, silently cheers when the boy doesn’t back away. He opens his arms, reaches out. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Credence. Not in my house.”

The boy lifts his chin, swipes roughly at his wet eyes, but doesn’t move yet. He scribbles something down instead.

_Promise?_

“Always,” Graves whispers, the tiny word in the middle of the paper cracking his heart, and the boy rushes into him, crumpling, sobbing and hiccuping loudly. “Oh, _baby_. Baby, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—Come here, let’s—” He picks the boy up by the soft thighs, lets the boy nuzzle into his neck in a parody of the loving embrace they had entwined in only ten minutes prior. He adjusts his grip, and then sits on the couch, the boy clinging to him, a trembling, warm mess on his lap, terrified. And this isn’t right, can’t be right. No teenager in their right mind should be so petrified at the idea of their father coming for them, no young person should sob and tremble and flinch at the very idea.

“Is that man your father, Credence? The one looking for you?” Graves whispers, and he feels the boy shake his head in the negative, curls tickling his chin. “Who is he?”

The boy shifts, finds his pen.

_A bad man._

“What did he do?” Graves can feel a beast awakening in his chest, a feral animal dripping from the maw, teeth snapping and clawing at the ground. Fury makes his jaw stiff, but he’s careful to keep his grip on the boy’s waist firm, but careful. “What did he do to you, Credence?”

Credence looks up at him with dark eyes and doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even move to reach for his pen. Graves remembers vividly the dark, splotched bruises on the boy’s hips and thighs, remembers him naked and trembling on the beach.

Graves is one of the few men in the local Garda (1) who is certified to carry a gun (2), and for good reason. He doesn’t like guns, never has. Has met one too many egomaniacs with god complexes because they had a finger wrapped round a factory-made trigger. He respects the power a gun has. He has never, ever felt the urge to kill someone unthreatened and unprovoked, never had any sort of temptation to threaten or degrade.

Until now.

Now, his eyes shine red and his breath gets thick and heavy in his chest. Now, he finds himself struggling to not pin Credence to the couch and blanket his weight over the boy, protective and feral as a mother bear, the world unable to pry him away from the sliver of boy he guarded. Now, he finds his own fist curling in on themselves, teeth gritting against each other, and he can see in his mind Credence’s faceless tormentor crushed and broken from Graves’ bare hands.

The only thing that jerks him out of his bloodlust is the feeling of Credence shifting closer, slim fingers sliding up to twine at the hair at the back of his neck. He pulls back a bit, just to see the boy’s face.

“You’re so beautiful,” Graves says aloud, feels his own eyes water hotly as he cups the soft, rosy cheek. “How could anyone ever hurt you?”

The boy doesn’t answer, just dips his head, holds Graves tighter, and Graves thinks about thick, clotted blood and the spatter of gunfire.

 

…  


_Credence_  


He can’t go back, he refuses to go back.

When Graves comes home, feral-eyed and hungry-mouthed, swoops down and presses his lips to Credence’s, Credence thinks he might swoon. He feels lost, feels stardust swoop through his veins, leave grit of glitter to ache in his chest and swell in his fingers. He clings to the man as long as he can, but then.

Then Graves retreats and he says something about a strange man, looking for _Credence._ And Credence knows the witch has come back for him, will take him. And he looks at Graves, looks at his uncertain face and his beautiful eyes and his darkened brow and Credence thinks he would let himself drown in the murky depths of the sea, his own home turned against him, before he gives up this lifetime with Mr Graves.

He knows it.  


…  


_Graves_  


The man is taller than Graves originally expected, thick ashy hair carefully combed away from the pointed, lupine face. He’s dressed finely, sleek dark suit with a pale silver tie, but it is his eyes that draws Graves’ stare—they are flat and dull and Graves can’t help but compare them to a slow-gliding shark circling a stranded swimmer. Patient and watchful one moment, murderous and terrifying the next.

The man smiles. He has a cruel mouth. The lips look thin and soft, but the eyeteeth are wolfish, long and needle-sharp. “Yes, how may I help you?” His voice is thick and heavy, the Baltic salting the slanted vowels and clicking consonants, and Graves knows this is the man that Queenie spoke of. The bad man.

Graves takes out his badge, allows the man a look at his identification. “Inspector Percival Graves, district Garda.”

The man blinks down at the badge and says, “Ah.” He reaches out for a handshake. “Gellert, Gellert Grindelwald. May I ask why the sudden visit?”

Graves smiles tightly, keeps his grip light and unthreatening. A heavy, cold ring digs into his palm. “A few concerned folk downtown have let me know you’ve a missing son.” The lie leaves his mouth smooth as butter. “Wanted to ask if yeh wished to file an official report with the authorities.”

The eyes go flinty and sharp, and then the predator subsides. The hairs on the back of Graves’ neck stand. “It’s nothing.” The man’s dismissive, and he has some charm, Graves can see that. But it is an empty charm, empty words and empty eyes. “Just a bit of family business, I wouldn’t want to trouble any of your fine officers.” Another depthless smile.

“With all due respect, sir, if a child is in danger, it’s the Garda’s responsibility to put out a missing minor’s report,” Graves says, affecting sternness.

“Ah, yes, no it is nothing like that.” Grindelwald waves him off. “I would offer an invitation in, but I was in the middle of something just before you came. Perhaps we could have this conversation at a later date?”

Graves looks at him and his expression must’ve been extremely skeptical, because the man laughs deeply and says, “No, no, of course. You take safety very seriously here in Ireland, yes. I understand.”

He opens his room’s door, and Percival is ushered into a dim-lit sleeping/sitting area, a rumpled bed shoved in the corner, a couch shoved in its opposite. Nothing sinister or out of place, a dirtied coffee mug set out on a coaster, a wrinkled shirt hung on a hanger on the curtain rung. A pile of musty, old-spined tomes draws Graves’ eye, but he can’t make out the titles on the back, even though they glint brightly and embossed. Some sort of Cyrillic alphabet, entirely foreign to him.

Grindelwald clears a small chair and a desk off for Graves, but Graves declines to sit. “I won’t stay for long, won’t want to inconvenience yeh.”

Grindelwald smiles humorlessly. “Of course, of course.”

“If there’s any light yeh could share on the situation, maybe?” Graves prompts after a tense, awkward silence.

Grindelwald draws a quick, sharp breath, dusts off the tops of his pants. “Yes, yes. Hmm. Where to begin.” He taps his mouth with his middle finger, a habit it looks like. “To clear some things up, no, my son isn’t a minor.”

( _I_ _nside, Graves lets out a long, relieved sigh he does not want to address)._

Grindelwald continues, oblivious, “He’s not missing. He’s left, after a very heated argument. Our opinions differ greatly on some things, you see, and it’s created a large rift between us.” Grindelwald moves to the kitchenette, trailing long fingers over the miniscule counter. He doesn’t seem uncomfortable, meets Graves’ gaze head on. “I am here looking for him, yes, but my son is an adult. I have no legal holding over him. I cannot force him to come home with me. But I wish to talk sense with him. To apologize, and get on with our lives.” He licks his lips, a small wet flicker, perches on a stool. “I’ve heard rumors among his friends that he’s found refuge in a little Irish town named Perth. And so here I am. Still searching.”

Graves blinks. “And you’re sure there’s nothing you want to be done in search of your son?”

Grindelwald dips his head politely. “Ah, no thank you. It is a kind offer, but a misplaced one. He will come to me when he is ready to make amends.”

Graves moves his lips in the small image of a smile. “Ah, alright. Just lettin’ you know, Perth’s a small town. Size of a shoebox, nearly. If your son was hiding here somewhere, people would know, trust me. Strangers aren’t common, not in Perth.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” Grindelwald nods. “But I’m sure he’s here. I can feel it.”

“Just one more thing, Mr Grindelwald, before I leave,” Graves says, adjusting the lapels of his coat, careful to not look the man in the eye. “Do you have a current picture? Of the boy?”

Grindelwald smiles, reaches into his pocket. He withdraws a small, battered leather wallet and flips it open. Graves cranes his neck, takes a quick peek—no credit cards, strangely, or pictures of family that he can see, just a glossy Polaroid slightly bent at the edges.

“Here,” the man reaches out, and Graves grasps it, brings it close to his eyes to see.

A pale, wane Credence, but the same age. Sunken cheeks and puffy mouth, lovely, knobby knees bared in cut-off shorts, slim arms vulnerable and bared in a black tank. He’s sitting on some sort of porch-step, and it would’ve looked like any other suburban teenager lounging in a friendly neighborhood had Graves not seen the eyes. The boy looks _terrified_ , eyes blown and wild, mouth open the slightest bit as if he were about to yell. And there is a kind of vagueness to the whole scene, the background too cloudy, the clothes the boy’s wearing too sharp, as if the photo had been modified somehow, tampered with.

“Yes, I’m sure I’ll recognize him now,” Graves says faintly instead of any of these things, already slipping out the door. He barely manages to hand the photo back, barely manages to return Grindelwald’s unnerving smile. “I’ll—I’ll notify you if I hear anything.”

A few more smiles and thank yous and have a good days, and Graves begins to wander his way down the drive.

“Oh, before you go, officer,” Grindelwald stands in the doorway, watching as Graves stumbles his way to his patrol car. “My son’s name—it’s Credence. Credence Grindelwald.”  
  
Graves sits for a good few minutes in a grocery shop parking lot after that, an accented voice rattling in his head, _I can feel it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The Garda (An Garda Síochána): the Republic of Ireland’s national police force. Graves’ rank is an Inspector Garda, equivalent to a DI in the UK or Detective in America; Tina is a Sergeant Garda. Plural officers are referred to as Gardaí. 
> 
> 2) Gardaí are routinely unarmed, with only 20-25% qualified to deploy a firearm. Those certified Garda must complete an intense weapon training course and earn a certificate of competency to hold weapons during investigation (Alpers, Philip. "Guns in Ireland - Firearms, gun law and gun control." GunPolicy.org. N.p., n.d. Web. 15 Jan. 2017).
> 
>  
> 
> Not entirely satisfied yet, but the plot's thickening.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A beach is not only a sweep of sand, but shells of sea creatures, the sea glass, the seaweed, the incongruous objects washed up by the ocean.  
> Henry Grunwald

 

_Graves_

That night, the boy slips into his bed.

It’s quiet and calm, but Graves is sleepless. He lies in bed, breath heavy, eyes unable to shut, staring at the sliver of moonlight spilling in between the pewter curtains. He can hear the crash and rush of the waves outside if he listens carefully, but strangely he doesn’t hear the boy’s footsteps until his door creaks open.

“Credence?” he murmurs, head still full of visions of shark-eyes and fang-teeth. And maybe the knot lessens, seeing the vague shape of the little one standing in the doorway, safe from beastly men and their calloused hands. But that doesn’t excuse the pleasure he feels, seeing the light spill onto Credence’s face, light up those dark liquid eyes.

Because even in the dark night, the boy is beautiful, a little ghost on the moor, limpid eyes and soft wide mouth. The dark curls drip like ink swirls onto the pale forehead, the lashes kissing black shadows against ice-cliff cheekbones, pearly teeth digging into a swollen berry lip nervously. He wears his little sleep shirt, the one that gapes over his hollow collars and the honey-dip of his throat. Graves can see the glint of his pretty bare thighs, the slim white feet curling uneasily on the wood-board floor, and it steals his breath like an icy wind.

“Are you alright?” Graves finds his voice.

The boy moves across the room, thin arms clutching his shoulders in a self-hug, head cast low.

“Cold?” Graves asks, voice soft, and the boy glances up shyly and nods.

“Come ‘ere,” Graves murmurs after a moment of conflict, but the image of the boy shivering alone on the cot Graves had set out for him makes his decision for him. Graves reaches out a hand, and he watches as the boy approaches the bed and gently moves the covers so he can fold his long, shapely legs underneath. The boy slips in, mattress barely dipping under his negligible weight, the slim, warm body pressing deliciously against him and Graves shifts onto his back to draw his little one close. He feels the slim arms splay across his chest, the little chilled toes bumping up against his shin.

“ _Jay_ sus, Credence, what’re those, your toes or icicles?” he grumbles. Credence giggles softly and they shuffle around. Graves leaves the bed to find Credence soft, fluffy socks, despite the boy’s nonverbal protests and grabby arms. He returns to the bed quickly, chuckling. “Yer a spoiled little thing, aren’t yeh?” he asks, undeniably pleased, watches the boy squirm beautifully on his dark sheets. He’s tempted to light his lamp, if only to get a glimpse of the boy fully. Instead, he sits on top of the cover and draws one little foot into his lap.

There’s a surprised breath, but Graves ignores it in favor of cupping the cold limb with warm hands and fingers, digging into the sole in a gentle massage. He hears the boy relax with a happy sigh as he rolls his thumbs into the arch, the room quiet but for the rustle of movement against sheets and the soft sounds of their breathing.

He leans down, finds the other foot, rubs warmth into that one as well. “Feels good?”

Credence nods, flushing gently, and the eyes slip closed. “Spoiled little thing,” Graves murmurs again, but he doesn’t pretend to be very bothered by it, especially when he sees the happy smile on the boy’s mouth. “Yes, yeh are. _My_ spoiled boy, though,” he murmurs, and pulls the warm socks onto each little foot.

They resettle, Graves on his back, Credence cuddled up on his front, their legs tangled nicely together. He presses his mouth to Credence’s temple, feels the curls slip velvet-soft against his neck, loops his arm around the tiny waist.

“What are we doing, Credence?” he murmurs, and the boy, bereft of his writing pad, says nothing. “What am _I_ doing?”

Credence tilts his chin to look up, and Graves’ lips and stubble scratch against the smooth skin, and he imagines the reddened beard burn the boy will inevitably wake up with on his forehead and cheeks the next morning.

“This is _so_ inappropriate,” Graves mutters, guilt seeping thick in his stomach, and he feels the boy shift and thinks he’s going to retreat to his own bed for whatever reason.

Instead, the boy pulls back and arches a brow, and yes, Graves gets the message. They’ve kissed, they’ve held each other close, Graves has _bathed_ the boy for Christ’s sake, has sat by his side almost every day since they’d first met. A bit of snuggling would not be crossing any of the many lines already skipped over in the sand. But this whole deal with Grindelwald is casting Credence more and more in the light of a _victim._ All Graves can see now is the boy, pale and slim and broken, underneath a towering, powerful figure with sharp teeth and claws, and all he can taste is _guilt._

And so he pulls back, tries to be objective, slides his hands down the boy’s spine one last time and tries to create space.

But then Credence gives a little noise of protest—and it was only a soft puff of air, a tightening of the jaw, but the wetness of his dark eyes and the grasping, pleading fingers pull Graves back in, make him shush and soothe, rake his fingers through the glossy curls. “Okay,” he murmurs, “Okay, I’m here. I’m here.”

But while he feels the boy’s breath deepen, watches the lovely lashes flutter shut, Graves can’t sleep. Because he knows on Monday, he’ll have to go into work. And the _very idea_ of leaving Credence behind, alone in a town harboring someone who means him ill harm, makes Graves’ skin crawl, makes his fists ball up and clench, makes him want to find something and kill it.

So he presses in close, and he whispers, “I have someone for you to meet tomorrow.” And he thinks _she’ll like you._

…

Queenie _does_ like Credence, very much so.

A sign that says _“closed”_ in wedding-cake swirling handwriting hangs on the front door of the shop, and yes, it’s Sunday in Perth, Ireland; it’s not uncommon for shops to be closed for church, but Queenie had always been the lone rebel to keep her shop running through morning mass. Now though, her store front’s abandoned and she’s dithering on the front-step like she’d been expecting them, grinning and giggling as Graves introduces her to Credence.

“Cocoa or coffee, honey?” she chirrups happily, fixing a little breakfast for Credence. A fluffy chocolate chip muffin, some freshly fried eggs, honey-buttered toast. She smiles at him over the countertop, and a little worried corner of Graves’ mind calms. _How could I think anyone wouldn’t like Credence?_

“He loves cocoa,” Graves says, smiling in relief. “Top it with a bit of whipped cream as well,” he adds, knowing his boy’s sweet-tooth. Credence gives a little excited hop at his side, clutching at Graves’ arm in his anticipation, and Graves apparently can’t quite hide the look of absolute adoration he gives him because Queenie raises an eyebrow, still smiling.

“Ah, here you go, Credence,” she says when she finishes. “Our famous hot cocoa, on the house.”

Credence sips it eagerly, cheeks pink and glowing from happiness, a bit of cream glistening on his upper lip.

“I need to speak with Miss Queenie for a bit, Credence. Would you like to sit at one of the tables and eat?” Graves asks carefully, watches as the boy nods eagerly and bounces towards the back of the shop, veering away sharply from the windows with distrust.

Ever since Graves had told him about Grindelwald, Credence had been incredibly nervy about going outside, even even hesitating about being near windows in general. The early morning skulks by the waterside have stopped. He avoids the bedroom window-alcove. This morning, he trembled getting into the car, had begged Graves on paper to leave him home. But Graves needs to know that Credence is safe, needs to have someone with him and so. Queenie.

“That was the boy in the photo,” Queenie whispers frantically once Credence has settled down to munch on his muffin. “The one the man was looking for!”

“I know,” Graves said grimly. “I’ve—I’ve been housing him for about two weeks now.”

Queenie’s brow creases with surprise.

“I didn’t know someone was looking for him until our talk,” he admits, agitated. He shoves his hands into his pockets, rocks on his heels. “I asked Credence about it, and he—he was _terrified,_ Queenie. I don’t know why, I don’t know what happened, but I’m near positive that man looking for him _isn’t_ his father.”

Queenie has a hand cupped over her mouth, looks around like she’s expecting Grindelwald to pop out from behind a curtain any moment now. “That’s—oh, the poor boy,” she says sadly.

“Yeah, I know.” Graves rakes his fingers through his hair. “I don’t mean teh trouble you, or nothing, but I can’t leave him alone, you know?” He swallows. “I—I wanted to ask yeh for a favor. Just—just look after him for me, okay? I’m going to go to the Chief with this information, I promise. But something just doesn’t feel right and I’m not willing to take chances.”

Queenie nods. “Of course, Mr. Graves, you can—”

The kitchen door smacks the wall, it opens so quickly, and they’re interrupted by Tina Goldstein, frowning confusedly, saying as she comes in, “Queenie, why are you closed? It’s Monday, fer God’s sake, people need their tea—” She stops, blinking at the scene: Graves looming and dark in front of the counter, Queenie shuffling guiltily behind.

“Tina!” shrills Queenie, wringing her apron nervously as she maneuvers around the countertop. “You didn’t tell me you were stopping by!” She smiles tremulously, and Graves sighs. Queenie’s a brilliant girl, makes the best bread pudding this side of Cork, but she’s a dreadful liar.

“Is there something happening here that I should know about?” Tina asks, suspicious.

“Nothing, honestly, Goldstein, I was just getting some breakfast,” Graves says tersely. She hasn’t spotted Credence yet, frozen like a doe on the meadow in the corner.

“Come off it, Graves, you never go out to eat,” Tina says, too observant for her own good. Atta girl, Graves would think in any other situation, but it’s something else, being on the other side of the glass. “What’s going on?”

“I felt like a change, Jesus, Tina, I’m not a robot,” he snaps, but then Tina, in the usual fashion, jumps from Point A into the Atlantic Ocean.

“Is—is this a _rendezvous_?” Tina asks, brow tense and confused. “Are— _Queenie!”_ she suddenly splutters, slack-jawed. “Are yeh—are yeh having an affair?!”

“No!” Queenie nearly _shrieks_ in indignation, but then Tina scours the room with her eyes and finds the boy in the corner, shrunken and trembling in the corner, and Graves pinches the bridge of his nose as she asks, slowly, “Isn’t… that the boy that Nordic fellow was asking after the other day?”

...

Tina, Graves finds, isn’t nearly as understanding as her sister.

“Yeh should’ve taken him straight to Protective Services!” she hisses, even after he’s explained in full. “What were you even thinkin’, Graves? Keeping a teenager at your home? Getting so involved? _Confronting_ the _suspect?_ Your judgment’s compromised!”

“You don’t know the situation,” Graves spits back. “I was only trying to keep him safe, that’s more than I can say for you. This man, whoever he is, he’s bad news. I don’t trust Credence in the system, Tina. I don’t trust that he’ll be _safe._ ”

“ _I_ don’t know the situation?” Tina bristles, cheeks flushing. _“You_ don’t know the situation! You’re going off your instincts, Graves, not evidence! Face it, you’re too emotionally involved. You should’ve alerted the station immediately when you first found him.” And then she stills, looking between Credence, sitting hunched in a chair, and Graves, standing tall and silent above him, his hand on Credence’s shoulder. “You haven’t—how old is this kid, Graves?”

“Old enough to know he doesn’t want to go back to his ‘father’,” Graves says lowly.

“Graves,” she whispers. “What are you doing?”

Graves knows he’s asked himself that just last night, questioned his own actions, agonized over the seemingly easy domesticity cloaking himself and Credence, but hearing another person, someone who Graves respects deeply, question him is another thing entirely.

“I don’t _know_ , Tina,” Graves finally admits harshly. “I don’t know, okay! I just—Mary and Joseph, girl, I found him naked on the beachside. He was cold, he was hungry, I took him in, I took care of him. I couldn’t just abandon him to a hospital bed.”

“He’s a person, not a stray cat, dear Lord,” Tina says, near ripping her hair out. “We’re _police_. Helping people’s what we do. We’re not _villains_. What were you gonna do anyway? Keep him locked up like a dog on a chain, stay with him forever? Live happily ever after like a bloody fairy tale? And what about Mr. Grindelwald, hm?”

Graves looks away, jaw tight. Credence reaches up, links their fingers together for comfort, and that’s the last straw for Tina.

“He shouldn’t be staying with you,” she says succinctly. “Let me or Queenie have him for a few nights. Clear your head. We need to take him—” And then she breaks off, face going white. “G-Graves?”

Graves frowns, looks down, and his breath leaves him.

Credence lifts his head, tilts his chin to the side, eyes entirely eaten up by black, liquid and animal. There’s no sclera, only a dark looming void that sharpens the air, and the room is suddenly freezing. Graves can see ice forming in dagger-spikes on the tables, the floor suddenly frosted and slippery slick, and Tina and Queenie start shivering. For some reason, Graves can’t feel the chill, only the soft warmth of the boy’s shoulder under his arm.

“Credence,” Graves whispers, stunned. And then he recalibrates, because the Goldstein girls’ lips are going blue, their teeth chattering. If Credence doesn’t stop… whatever this is, then they’ll surely freeze. Even now, their movements are sluggish as they stumble back in shock, ice cracking on Tina’s slacks, Queenie’s dress dripping with icicles. “Don’t do this. Please.”

Credence head tilts again, and his empty eyes meet Graves’. Graves kneels down on the freezing ground next to Credence, so he can look directly into his boy’s black gaze. The bite of the air nips at him now, just a bit, and Graves takes a shuddery breath.

“Whatever they said before, you know it’s not going to happen, my boy,” Graves rumbles, deep and comforting and he sees a twitch of the soft lips. He says, insistently, “Come on, yer a good boy, Credence. _My_ boy. And these are my friends, see?”

Credence swallows, eyes still blacked out, but the ice recedes just the slightest bit.

“They’re my friends, but I’d never let them take you away from me,” Graves murmurs, sliding soothing fingers over the boy’s shoulder, fingers so long they brush the fragile collar. “Come back to me.” He leans down, presses his lips to the wild curls, cups the soft cheek, and whispers, _“Credence.”_

And warmth floods back into the room so quickly even Graves can feel it, like a bonfire-heat flaring up brightly on a winter morning.

The ice melts almost instantly, dripping off of tables and chairs, and Queenie and Tina gasp loudly, clutching each other in shock, suddenly drenched in hot water, the flush returning to their cheeks and fingers in a rush of balmy blood.

“What—” stammers Tina, but Graves’ glare quiets her, and they watch as Credence’s shoulders slump and then begin to shake with tears.

“Oh, _Credence,”_ whispers Mr. Graves, before his hands are full of a sobbing little faerie, arms looped around his neck, a wet face burying itself in his chest. “Baby, shh.” Credence sobs harder at this, fat tears spilling down his cheeks, and Graves draws him even closer, mouths gently at the sweet-smelling temple, feels the curls brush against his under-jaw.

“My sweet, poor baby,” he murmurs, and he draws them both up, standing, running his warm hands up and down the curve of the boy’s spine, feels the bump of each vertebrae. “You’re gonna be okay, it’s alright. There we go.”

“I think Credence should stay with Mr. Graves,” says Queenie quite firmly, wringing out her soaked skirt, a new flood splattering at her heels, her curls a wet, dark mop plastered against her forehead.

“Quite agree,” splutters Tina, wiping drenched bangs away from her flushed face. “That—what are we dealing with here?” 

Graves carries the boy into the breakroom Queenie has for her few employees, complete with a table and little coffee table, but Graves makes a beeline for the couch, sits down first and sets Credence on his thighs, lets the boy fold up like a paperbird, and he murmurs, “It’s fine, just let it out.”

Credence shakes like a leaf on his lap, and Graves hums a little lullaby in the deep of his throat, hand gently rubbing circles into the shaking back.

“Shh, love,” he soothes. “It’ll be okay.”

The boy gives a soft sob, coughs a little bit. His shaking hands come away from his mouth and he reaches for his notepad.

_I couldn’t control it, I’m sorry Mr. Graves I’m sorry_

“It’s not your fault, Credence, it’s not,” Graves says patiently, drawing the boy close, lowering the paper with a swift touch. “You were just scared. Who could blame you? Tina means well, but she comes off a bit strong, doesn’t she?”

There’s a wet, sniffly laugh, and Credence pulls back, looking sheepish as he mops away his tears with his sweater-sleeve. It’s a bit of a crime, how lovely and pretty the boy looks with a flushed red nose and puffy eyes, but he does, and Graves swipes his thumb over a wet cheekbone. 

“What are you?” Graves murmurs, and Credence just looks at him with wet, puppyish eyes. “What am I dealing with?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait and the shortness of this chapter. school is kicking my ass.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> clouds above the sea by philip levine
> 
> ...I could give her a rope of genuine pearls  
> as a gift for bearing my father's sons,  
> and let each pearl glow with a child's fire.  
> I could turn her toward you now with a smile  
> so that we might joy in her constancy,  
> I could bury the past in dust rising,  
> dense rain falling, and the absence of sky  
> so that you could turn this page and smile.  
> My father and mother, two tiny figures,  
> side by side, facing the clouds that move  
> in from the Atlantic. They are silent  
> under the whole weight of the rain to come.

…

_Graves_

Graves takes Credence home after that disastrous meeting, Credence bleary and sleepy-eyed from his tears and whatever-the-fuck he’d done in Queenie’s shop. He's so tired his head is lolling against the passenger seat of Graves’ old battered car. Graves carries him like a little bride into the house, tucks him into his own bed, gently placing the dark sheets about the boy and kissing his forehead.

“Will you be alright by yourself?” he asks Credence lowly, who looks up at him and nods, eyes dark and soft. “Good.”

He has a few calls to make.

The first is to his friend Kim Yun in Immigration. He’s a funny little man, Yun, excitable as a puppy and twice as sweet, but he can be stern when needs must. He’s one of the better Immigration officers, helpful and understanding, and he also owes Graves a large favor. It’s nothing for Yun to draw up a Mr Gellert Grindelwald's file and reveal, voice confused, that “There’s nothing here? It’s just a Word Document with a name and a date of birth.”

“Hmm,” Graves says consideringly. “Not even a registered passport or a visa?”

“Ahh, none that I can see?” Yun’s voice has gone shrill with slight alarm. “That’s—very odd. I—I think maybe one of the interns might have messed up?”

Graves is careful to hide his smile from going over the phone. “Would you be so kind as to email it over?”

Mr. Gellert Grindelwald, it is soon revealed after a few more calls and texts to various people in close accordance to Yun, only exists on a piece of paper in a crowded filing room.

“This is quite irregular!” Yun cries.

“Ah, yes,” Graves hums, sympathetic. “Don’t worry, Kim, I’m handling it.” He clicks the phone shut on a outpouring of Yun’s protests. Poor man, he thinks, he’ll be in for a talking with his advisors. Graves makes a few more notes in the case file, opens to the door of his office to address Abernathy when he’s done.

“A certain Mr Gellert Grindelwald has been asking around for his son downtown.” Graves’ voice is perfectly nonchalant. “Would you be so kind as to call up some of his neighbors, ask after the boy? I just wanted to see if there’s any way we could be of help.”

“Yessir!” Abernathy salutes him and comes back only two hours later, sounding quite frazzled. “They don’t know him!” Abernathy says, flustered beyond belief. “All of ‘em just laughed in my face! ‘That Grindelwald? He don’t have no kids!’ They’re swearing on God they only see Grindelwald himself twice a week, if that. What’s going on, sir?”

“I don’t know,” says Graves, grateful the poor officer can’t see the smug little smile forming on his mouth. “But I think it in our best interest to open an investigation into this Credence’s whereabouts, don’t you?”

The ball has begun to roll.

…

_Credence_

The moment Graves leaves the house for work, a peck to his forehead and a murmur of “Be good, Credence,” Credence goes into the kitchen.

He knows the house like the back of his hand, now. Where Mr. Graves hides his favorite biscuits, the drawer where Mr. Graves’ keeps his mother’s old silverware, the large cabinet stuffed to the brim with different teas and coffees.

But most importantly he knows where the salt is.

A thick trail of salt, dusting over the window sills and the threshold of all the entrances of the house, Credence even venturing as far as going down into the locked up cellar and lacing the edges of the room himself. He won’t be taking any chances, not with Grindelwald. He won’t be putting Mr. Graves into anymore danger, not if he can help it.

Credence stands in the cellar, touches the salt himself with his dry hands, feels the crystals crumble between his fingers. There’s no sting like there would’ve been if he still had his coat. No bubble or hiss or curl of smoke. There will be if Grindelwald tries anything. He swallows around his useless tongue. When he looks up, there’s a thud from outside.

“Credence?” calls a voice, high and feminine. “It’s me, Queenie. I brought lemon tarts!”

Credence heads up the steps, bare pink feet slapping against cold wood, looks out the little peek-a-boo hole in the door. Queenie grins up at him through the small window, mouth brightly lipsticked, little hands clutching a basket full of pastries, hair perfectly curled like little gold rings bouncing in the wind.

“Hello!” She waves cheerily. “Mr. Graves sent me over to see how yer doing.”

Credence blinks and carefully unlocks the door, a few clicks of metal and the hinges swing wide open in welcome.

But Queenie doesn’t come in at first. Her smile’s still bright and pearly. “Beautiful day, innit? A bit too nice to spend inside. Want to lounge around out here with me?”

Credence blinks, looks at the bright sun and feels the warm breeze on his cheeks, ruffling his curls. It’d been miserable and chilly this morning, but now it’s gorgeous, the sky a sharp baby boy blue. It’s tempting. Credence can imagine wandering down to the shore, letting the cold briny waves lap at his little toes, maybe stripping down to his pants to take a little swim. But then he remembers The Man, leering and dark-eyed in the dark, bruises on his wrists and waist and hips and a sudden chill comes over him.

_No._ He shakes his head in denial and retreats back into the house, nodding his head, trying to tell her _come in?_

Her mouth strains for a moment. “Really, Credence,” she giggles, eyes strangely tense. “Won’t you come outside? I’ve been cooped up in a little hot kitchen all mornin’. Feel like takin’ in the sun a little.”

But Credence just shakes his head again, and still Queenie refuses to move forward.

“Spoiled little brat,” says Queenie, but it’s no longer her fresh, light Irish lilt. Instead, it’s thick and Nordic and deep, and her slight blond figure seems to tower, broad shoulders stretched wide like the horizon and muscles filling up a sleek black suit instead of a fluttery sundress. “Always were quite the troublemaker, Credence.”

Gellert Grindelwald smiles at Credence with knife-teeth, and Credence bolts down the hall in a terror, bare feet slip-sliding over the floor. Something catches, and Credence falls, trips, banging his knee, bruises blooming like flowers. He can feel his heart thudding in his ears where he lays, gasping, eyes whited out with terror, but then he remembers the salt.

“Come on out, pup,” Grindelwald purrs, so far away, so close, but not inside the house. Not yet. He can’t. “I have all day to wait. I might not be able to get you without an invitation because of your little salt trick, but your precious Mr. Graves will come back eventually. And there’s no salt rings protecting him.”

Credence finds the courage to turn around, meet those dead eyes, one silver, one black. _Go away,_ he tries to whisper, but his voice is gone with his fur.

The man smirks at him from the porch and he seems to flicker in the light, the edges of him feathered and blurred. “Come to me, Credence,” he murmurs and his voice is like poisoned treacle, sweet and smooth and it burns a hole in Credence’s stomach. “You know you want to.”

Credence makes the mistake of meeting Grindelwald’s eyes. They shine, even in the bright morning light, glitter like moonstones, and they draw Credence in like shackles around his wrists and a leash around his neck. A sudden warmth fills him and his head feels fuzzy, white noise buzzing in his ears, and all he can think of is those eyes. Those eyes—they’re _everything._ He has to do what they say, has to please them, he _must._ It’s the only reason he’s alive, the only reason he still breathes, lungs swelling in his chest.

Before Credence can blink, he finds himself standing in front of the door, those eyes crinkling at him, below a plush mouth smirking smooth and slow.

“There we are,” a voice murmurs, deep and dark and pulling at Credence’s feet. “Do me a favor, puppy?”

Credence nods thoughtlessly—those moon eyes smile at him and all he wants to do is to drown in them, warm and safe.

“Good,” purrs the voice, gentle. “You’re doing so good for me, pup. Now. Break that little salt line in front of you.”

Credence tilts his head. The eyes want him to do something, yes? They want him to—

The trail is at his feet, grainy and slim. It’d be easy. He could reach out with his bare feet, kick up the crystals into the air, or lean down, dust it away with his palm. And the eyes and the voice would be happy with him. Would reward him. Fill him up like a pool till he swells with happiness, overflows, splashing down upon the floor.

He could…

But just as smoothly as he was pulled in, a shrill, outraged cry—“ _Credence!”_ —shatters the warm blanket weighing on Credence’s mind, and suddenly Credence blinks and he is standing in front of Grindelwald, about to break the only barrier between them that keeps him safe, and Grindelwald’s lip is curling violently, a black fury twisting features that might’ve been handsome had they been sane.

And the woman who had yelled, Miss Tina, the police officer who had tried to take him away from his Mister Graves, is there in full uniform, her mouth thin and cheeks blotchy with anger.

He shakes his head at her, desperate. She can’t be here, shouldn’t be here, not with Grindelwald looming tall and powerful, his black magic soaking the air like the dark smell of wine and sharpness of smoke.

“Is this man botherin’ you, Credence?” Tina asks, eyes like chips of ice.

Credence hesitates, but Grindelwald doesn’t make a move to threaten or to urge. In fact, his entire body language changes. His shoulders shrink down into his neck, narrowed eyes softening, arm coming up to scratch sheepishly at his nape. He looks _bashful._ Sweet. Screaming oh little old me? I couldn't hurt a fly, let alone my precious son, please come home, Credence, please?

“No need to jump to any conclusions, madam,” laughs Grindelwald, smiling charmingly at Miss Tina, eyes flickering. “I was just having a chat with my boy, isn’t that right, Credence?” He turns back to Credence and gives a vicious little wink.

Credence shakes his head fervently, so pale his mouth feels cold, clutches at the door frame shakily, and Tina glares at Grindelwald.

“I think it’s time you left, sir,” she says firmly, chin held high, eyes fierce. “Credence is obviously uncomfortable with you here. And I doubt Mr. Graves would approve of you lurking on his doorstep.”

Grindelwald smiles with his sharkish mouth, and nods. “But of course, my dear. I wouldn’t dare impose on my son and his… friend.” He smirks at Credence. “You’ll be seeing me soon, pup.” He waves at Credence as he saunters down the porch steps, hands shoved into his suit’s pockets, devil-may-care, and Credence is finally able to breathe once more now that the hated man’s feet are no longer invading Mr. Graves’ property, Credence’s sanctuary.

Tina shudders once the man’s car is put into drive, able to show her malcontent now that the villain is gliding down the cobbled road that leads into town, away from the seashore. “Credence, are yeh alright?” Tina asks seriously. “He didn’t hurt you or anything, did he?”

Credence can’t stop the trembles that shake through his arms and shoulders, and he feels his face flush with heat and his eyes well up with the pearly tears that seemed to always be brewing in this hateful, _human_ body.

“Oh, Credence,” sighs Tina as she steps into the house and envelopes Credence in a hug. “You’re alright, Credence. Yer alright.”

…

Graves has always loved his work. He’s never been the first one out the door once the clock strikes five, always content and amenable to staying a little longer to clear up a bit of paperwork or find the proper place for a file or hustle a suspect through the booking process.

But now, he finds himself staring at the clock viciously, trying to will the dumb little red hand to tick just that little bit faster so he can get home to Credence. _His_ boy.

Poor Abernathy’s posed to knock on his door when Graves strides past him, waving him off when the man opens his mouth to ask a question.

“Tomorrow, Abernathy, there’s always tomorrow,” he says at the man’s disgruntled expression, can’t even bring himself to feel sorry about his shameless dismissiveness, not when he’s finally headed home to see his lovely, lovely Credence, and his sinking couch and a hot dinner.

“Aye,” grumbles Abernathy, but Graves is already in the car, on his way home.

But he finds his jaw tightening when he spies Tina's car in the driveway, the good mood warm in his chest suddenly disappearing. Ever since the little spat about Credence’s living situation, he’s been a bit testy with the woman, found his muscles relaxing in relief when Bethelda his handy secretary had informed him she’d called in sick that morning.

Evidently, that had been a fib.

He fits his key into the lock and strides into the mud room, frowning when he sees Tina and Credence curled up on the couch, a fat book in Tina’s hand as she reads to the sleepy Credence, her voice low and smooth and _not Graves._ They’re much, _much_ too close for Graves’ comfort, and he finds himself thinking uncharitably that Tina’s one to talk to him about getting emotionally involved when she’s cuddling up to his boy like this.

“Goldstein,” he snaps, the curling heat and anger in his rib cage glowing. He can’t help but be a bit smug at seeing her startle and go white at the sound of his voice. Credence barely lifts his head from the pillow cushioning his neck, only leans back to look up and smile softly at Graves, and Graves finds himself smiling back like an old fool despite himself.

“Detective!” Tina chirps nervously as she pops up, fiddling with the thick book. A Charles Dickens, Graves notes with a raised eyebrow. “I—I didn’t see you there, sir.” She smooths her hair and slacks into place before staring as Credence sits up and smiles dreamily at Mr. Graves from his place on the couch.

“Hello, Credence,” Graves says sweetly, moving close so he can bend and kiss Credence’s forehead lingeringly. Credence makes a quiet, happy little noise and leans into the touch while Tina blushes red as a tomato. “How is my boy today?”

Credence smiles with strawberry cheeks as he pulls out his little notepad.

_Better now that you’re here._

“There was a small incident,” says Tina awkwardly as Credence tugs Graves down onto the sofa next to him, the boy curling into Graves’ side quietly.

Graves stills, head cocked. “An… incident?” he asks slowly, feeling Credence shudder under his touch, slim arms slipping around Graves’ waist, nervous. The more Tina slowly, tentatively explains—the strange man coming to the doorstep, uninvited and unwanted, Credence glassy and unresponsive, the cold smile, the man’s quiet impassiveness, the cruelness of him—Graves feels red rage pool in his stomach, expanding painfully, angrily up into his chest, and he clutches Credence so tightly that Credence gives a shocked tiny noise that he murmurs an apology at.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Graves asks lowly, fury making his vision blur.

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t want teh disturb—”

“There is an investigation going on, Goldstein,” he snaps. “Into the very man you now say was at my door, bothering my…” He looks at Credence, before turning back to Tina, flaring with anger. “What if he were armed? You should have alerted me _immediately.”_

“Sir—”

“This is not how a responsible officer behaves, Goldstein.”

Maybe he’s harsher than usual. Maybe he’s a little too cruel, now that he’s seeing Tina’s face pale and sadden and her lower lip stiffen. But he remembers her sitting on the couch, her mouth smiling fondly at Credence, _his boy,_ in his seat, and he swallows roughly. But he doesn’t want to act like an asshole, doesn’t want Credence to be scared, his perfect darling who’s looking at him and Tina worriedly.

“Don’t let it happen again,” he says gruffly, dismissively.

She nods hurriedly, turning to say goodbye to Credence, but Graves only hears static buzzing in his ears until the door swings shut behind her. There’s a sudden silence slipping through the house, the hairs on Graves’ neck standing and quivering and he only is able to blink out of it when Credence tugs nervously at his shirtsleeve, and he realizes he is alone with his boy at last. He sees himself walking slowly with Credence into the kitchen, rage and protectiveness making his frame stilted and still, the boy’s eyes wide with concern as he gets out the kettle and pours water and finds the tea leaves, perhaps to calm him down, Graves doesn’t know. Such a good boy, he finds himself thinking.

He can’t help it really. Even the idea of Credence in danger makes his blood sing and he finds himself herding Credence up against the kitchen counter, flicking the stovetop off with a careless movement. Graves slides his hands up to cup the soft neck, the skin smooth like satin under his heavy touch. Credence gives a sharp, startled gasp, but is looking up at Graves with those big doe eyes, his little hands coming up to touch Graves’, utterly unafraid. Safe.

“I can’t…” Graves can’t find his words, but forces them out anyways, breathing heavy. “I can’t fucking lose you.”

Credence is flushed, a shy little thing Graves wants to devour whole, and when Graves slides his hand over his downy cheek, the ridged calluses on his palms scraping gently, Credence trembles, mouth dropping open, plush and wet and pink, and Graves leans in, kissing him deeply.

Credence breathes in, shaky as a dove, and Graves gives a low groan, rumbling through his throat and into the boy’s wet honeyed mouth. It feels like an age since he’s last kissed Credence, that shaky trembly thing that happened out of fear and anger. It hadn’t been like this in the slightest. It had been sweet and languid and everything he could’ve wanted, yes, but this… this is like being drenched in fire, searing his bones and filling up his heart. He crushes Credence to his chest, the slim delicate waist cradled carefully in his arms, and he finds himself becoming immediately obsessed with the soft little noises Credence is making, wet and sugar-strung, little delighted sounds that belong to Graves, completely and utterly.

Their mouths part, and Graves pants against Credence’s glass sharp jaw, lips brushing against Credence’s skin, feeling where his heart flutters like a hummingbird’s wings. “Sorry,” Graves breathes gently, thick fingers sliding up into those wild, beautiful curls. “Yeh—you just make me _wild_.”

Credence looks almost drunk _,_ glossy-eyed and dazed, and Graves can’t help but drag the beautiful thing into another kiss, clutching at Credence so close, he can feel Credence’s long shapely legs locking around his hips, their groins pressed together hot and snug, rolling together through layers of fabric. Credence shakes slightly, another short, hot bleat of pleasure, and Graves’ mouth slips down to worship at the pretty white throat. A rush of _obsession_ rolls through him and he thinks about putting his teeth to delicate skin and sinking in deep, marking, bruising, pretty purple splashes like spills of blood and berry, but the thought makes his stomach roil with disgust at the thought of hurting Credence just as much as it makes his cock throb and swell.

Instead, he mouths at the collarbone, feeling slim fingers slipping through his hair, clinging tightly. They tangle together, and Graves can’t stand it, being so close and yet so far away. He loops his arms tighter around the soft boy, and lifts him up into the air like he has so many times. But the way Credence curls into his chest, peppering small but desperate kisses on any skin he can reach, neck and throat and collarbone, little hands clutching at him needily, it is as though Graves has never carried him before.

Graves moves them to his bedroom, the curtains drawn and lights dimmed from that morning, but even in the dark Graves can only see the beautiful boy he splays out on his duvet, a mimic of that very first night _(Credence cold-sick and trembling and blue-lipped, so near death Graves feels his stomach turning to ice)_. It’s only when he feels boy hands sliding up his waist, hands warm and small underneath his shirt, petting at his stomach tentatively that he comes back to himself and presses Credence down, eager and hungry, but a fierce desire to protect, protect, protect flushing through him.

“Sweet thing,” he whispers before their mouths slot together again. Credence’s lips are so loving and giving against his, Graves thinks he could fall into their kisses and never surface. Long svelte legs frame his hips like they’ve never left, and he can feel Credence trying to tug him down even closer, as if they could kiss forever, but Graves wants _more._ Wants everything Credence has to give, the kind of want that could make a man lie, steal, murder.

“I’d kill for you,” he gasps against Credence’s neck, hears the boy gasp. He doesn’t know whether the reaction is to his words or Graves tugging off Credence’s oversized sweater, _Graves’s_ sweater that had been driving him crazy all day. “Fuck, but you know that already, don’t you? You own me, boy. All of me, even if I’m old and stupid for you.”

Credence is shaking his head in violent denial, presses the pads of his fingers to Graves’ mouth with some sort of reverence reserved for priests and saints and holy places.

“I’m not like you, Credence. I’m filthy,” Graves whispers, and fuck but his eyes are welling up with tears. “I’m no good. Every single day—”

But Credence is as kind as he is lovely, and Graves looks down at the boy, velvet to the touch, belly smooth and cool like silk, his cheeks dark with an almost violent blush. He hears _you’re so good I can see you you’re so good._ Graves reaches down, finds the soft trousers around Credence’s waist and tugs them down the soft, pale legs, leaving him nude on the bed, and Graves doesn’t know how he's survived without this. Graves doesn’t even bother to take off his own clothes. This isn’t about him. It’s just for Credence.

“You’re safe. You’ll always be safe with me.”

Credence is so slender, and Graves wants to cup that chest in his hands, press against where the ribs are fragile under thin flesh, hold the heart in his hands. But he can’t. So Graves bends down, sees the pink bundle of Credence’s groin, so darling that Graves can't help himself and presses his teeth to the plush of Credence's inner thigh in a firm love-bite. It's not enough pressure to bruise, just a gently flushed imprint of teeth to pull a sharp little gasp from his boy when Graves scrapes those teeth up to his sharp little hips, nipping.

Graves looks up, chin brushing against Credence’s satiny navel, splittable and delicate enough that he gentles his touch into smooth caresses, a strange sort of terror at the idea of hurting, of breaking, and it occurs to Graves that this boy is his all, is twice as precious as the pearls Credence gave Graves so long ago.

“Are you sure?” Graves murmurs, and his voice seems to echo in the room, because Graves needs to know, has to be _certain,_ because Credence can’t say “no”, can only plead with his eyes and arch and mewl and right now that doesn’t feel like enough.

But then a warm palm cradles Graves’ jaw wonderingly, smooth skin sliding against the roughness of his scruffy jaw, silk against sandpaper. And Credence has never looked as beautiful, as sure, as confident in himself as he does when he smiles down at Graves and nods, so trustingly.

_Yes, I want this._

And God himself wouldn’t be able to stop Graves from ravishing Credence now. He trails hot little kisses down that long neck, presses sucking, bruising kisses over those plump pink nipples, loses himself in the softness of Credence’s belly, skipping his lips over the rungs of his ribs, nipping at the sharp girlish points of Credence’s hip bones. And his thighs. Graves could write poems about those plush white thighs, locking around his chest, but Graves doesn’t let himself be caught, insists on worshiping the hard kneecaps and down the sloping shins. Even those slim white little feet. Graves kisses the fragile little ankles and the smooth tops before sliding his way back up.

Credence’s cock is full and pink against his vulnerable belly, and Graves groans hungrily at the sight. He feels Credence’s hips jerk in his hands as he takes his softness into his mouth, heavy sweet flesh swelling with desire against his tongue. Credence makes tiny, wild noises and to the surprise of no one, it doesn’t take long for him to spill thickly in Graves’ mouth. Graves reluctantly pulls back only at the tug of fingers in his hair, and he looks up to see Credence dazed and pink.

_Up, up, up,_ his boy seems to say, and he doesn’t stop pulling until their noses bump together and they can press their mouths together in lazy, hungry kisses. They pull away only when their chests grow too tight to continue, Credence too new at this to remember to breathe through his nose. Graves chuckles, can’t help himself. He swipes his thumb over Credence’s sharp cheekbone, looks into those languid eyes.

“There’s my baby,” he whispers. “I love you.”

It’s quiet after those words except for their soft breathing and the crash of the waves on the shore outside.

And Credence looks up at him and takes his hand in his.

“I love you too,” he says, and the world changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol im the worst. i dont even wanna mention how long it's been but thank you to the people who keep reading and want more and keep writing comments. you guys are the true heroes. i love you all <3

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my beta, MadTheLine, for overlooking my work. Also thanks to Istanbulet for allowing me use of her artwork and edits. This is my first work in this gorgeous fandom and I hope to upload the next chapter soon.
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT 1/15/2017: Tina Goldstein's position was referred to as DS (Detective Sergeant), but the Republic of Ireland has different organization than the UK. She is technically just a Sergeant, so that is now changed.


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